It is characteristick of the Beau that in this critical juncture of affairs, he preserved his faculties so intact, that he was able without affectation to choose deliberately between a dressing-gown of flowered damask and a more diaphanous wrapper of dove-grey China silk. In deference to the season he selected the latter. As he passed the door of his third dressing-room, he could see Mr. Mink, apparently unconscious of anything untoward in the air, blowing with steady breaths upon a remarkably hot pair of curling-tongs. The calm demeanour of his gentleman restored whatever was still lacking to Mr. Ripple's perfect equilibrium of mind. With gentle steps, he descended the quiet stairs and, candlestick in hand, proceeded to draw back the cunningly wrought bolts of the front door. "Mr. Ripple, I must speak to you," said Charles. "Charles," said the Beau, "this visit is either vastly important or--it is vastly impertinent. Pray, what is your business, sir?" "Business?" repeated Charles, on whom the effort of concentration was beginning to tell slightly. "Business?" "Yes, business, sir, business; for I presume you are not situated on my doorstep for pleasure." "I want to speak to you." "Come to-morrow." "Nay, sir, I must speak with you now. I'm in a devilish mess and need the advice of a man who has seen--who has seen----" "Well, sir?" said the Beau, shading his candle in such a way that the pallid flickering rays lit up the young man's countenance. "D----! I don't know, Ripple, but for God's sake don't stand there with that infernal candle dancing all over my face. Let me come in." Whether it was the note of misery in our hero's voice or his drawn face or merely a whim of a great man's naturally eccentrick mind that made the Beau beckon Charles to follow him upstairs to the tall white drawing-room, where even still the fire glowed dully, will never be known. Any way, beckon to him he did, and having set down the taper on the high mantelpiece, seated himself beside the fire and began meditatively to toast his embroidered morocco pumps. There they sat in the great drawing-room, the King and his Heir Presumptive, and very ghostly they looked in the wan light, and very unreal the whole experience seemed to Charles in after life. "'Tis about this book." "What book?" "This satire." "You wrote it?" "Aye," with great weariness. "_You_ wrote it? 'Foregad, Charles, I should never have believed that." "But I never--I never wrote those lines." "What lines?" Mr. Ripple, having admitted much, would admit no more. "About Miss Courteen and the Maze, and the whole d----d, d----d, d---- d----" No substantive was strong enough to suit the emphatick epithets thrice repeated. "And who, may I ask, was the author of those graceful stanzas?"